Lovers and Husbands
by amaretto and coke
Summary: AU: a twist on the Jean Scott Logan triangle. Rating for bad language and non-explicit sexual content.
1. Lovers

You're my medicine, open up and let me in 

Darling, you're so great I can't wait for you to operate…

- Marvin Gaye, _Sexual Healing_

This hotel room isn't quite as nice as the one that I got last week. 

I don't know why I notice that. I don't intend to use this place for anything more than a quick tryst. Amenities are lost on me; all I need is the bed. And maybe the toilet. The television is nice for entertaining me before she comes in, or perhaps keeping me from thinking too damn much.

A poorly produced chop-socky is playing right now. "Mr. Nice Guy", I think. I snort a laugh of disgust. I'm anything but. I'm irresponsible, I don't contribute much to society and I'm screwing some poor sap's wife.

I take off my boots and lay back into the soft pillows, catching a whiff of detergent. I wonder if the proprietor of this place knows that his business provides no service to the community at large beyond a place for illicit lovers to come and screw. I wonder what type of detergent they use to clean the protein from the sheets. I watch my toes as they wiggle and block my view of the screen. It's nearly 10 p.m. She's a little late. Or I'm a little early. Either or.

Maybe she's caught in traffic. Maybe she's stopped for a bite to eat. Maybe she's calling her husband right now, telling him that she's 'working late.'

Maybe she's riding him, whispering his name and scratching his stomach, the way she scratches mine.

The door's unlocked. She knows what room I'm in. Nothing for me to do but be erect by the time she shows up. I don't need to touch myself. I think of her – her glistening skin, a marvelous shade of ivory, her flowing auburn hair that reminds me of wine, and her jade eyes – and I feel blood flow. I put my hands beneath my heads, making a cradle.

I wonder what she'll have on tonight. Blue jeans and a T-shirt? Khakis and a blouse? Spandex? It doesn't matter. She might take it off, she might not.

As much as I like this woman, I'm mildly surprised by my indifference to the whole matter. You'd think that someone partially responsible for the decline of morality in general would at least take the time to put emotion into a relationship, no matter how twisted. You'd be wrong. I don't even think of her as my girlfriend. She's more like…an _appointment._ Or a client, if you will. Not a regular by any means, but one that I try to keep happy. And what am I to her? A hard cock to fuck when she feels like breaking out of her world and pretending that she's wild and spontaneous. Sheesh.

Sharp _clicks_ echo on the concrete. I look up as a shadow passes by the drawn shades. A moment later she enters the room, locking both the deadbolt and the chain. She looks at me with a demure smile.

She's wearing a shell-pink suit trimmed in darker pink silk, with a matching cap. Her nude pantyhose coat her slim legs and vanish into bone-white pumps. She's even wearing a pearl necklace. She looks the absolute picture of angelic housewifery, excepting the sheen of sweat that makes her facial features glow. Nervousness, maybe? It can hardly be lust.

I watch as she makes her way to my side of the bed with a brisk, professional gait. _Ready for my 10 o'clock, sir._ I slide my pants down my hips and she mounts me almost immediately. I notice that she hasn't taken the cap off, nor has she bothered to wear underwear. My hands lock on her hips, holding her steady as she slides down with a groan.

She smells good. It might be soap, it might be partly her husband's cologne. I like it all the same.

She rakes manicured nails over my chest, disturbing the sparse hair. My nipples respond, growing erect from the mild abuse. She tweaks one, drawing a pant from me, but no noise otherwise. 

The only sounds are her excited breathing and the squeaking of the bed. Stars explode behind my closed eyes as I submit to being her fucktoy, but I don't murmur my delight, don't moan for her. She's married, after all. She doesn't need another husband.

I feel it coming on, and I thrust into her, the first active move I've made yet. A few more excited pushes seal the deal, and I finally open my eyes. She's stopped riding, breathing hard. She's beautiful. I never knew that she had freckles. They're almost an afterthought – a smattering of pale beauty marks that frame her cheekbones. Her eyes meet mine.

"One more time?" she asks, almost timidly.

This time, we get completely undressed. She wants to rut while kneeling in the center of the bed, so I take my place behind her and enter her, moving slowly. Her hair sticks to her back in clumps; the rest of it hangs down and contrasts with the white sheets.

It's over soon. At least for her. She slides off me and I slide out of her and she lays herself down for a few moments, trying to get the strength to move again. I, on the other hand, simply notice that I am hungry.

"Hey," she says. She's looking over her shoulder at me. "You didn't come."

No, sweetheart, I didn't. Frankly, I'm surprised she's noticed. It's not as if she does this for any pleasure that _I_ may receive.

She crawls towards me on all fours, skims her damp hair out of her face and begins to suck. I sit back on my haunches, trying to maintain enough self-control not to touch her. I don't want to become attached to this woman. Attachments make things hard. Like leaving when I want to. Like knowing that she's going home to a husband who may or may not be aware that his wife's playing him like a jukebox.

Her husband. It's a pretty large town, but I'd be willing to bet I know the guy. Maybe I've seen him around, bought him a drink at a bar once. I watch her lips as they stretch, warp. You gonna kiss your husband with that mouth, honey?

I come with a sharp intake of breath, and slump forward. I make sure to plant my hands on either side of her body and balance myself above her. She looks at me, bemused, and I smile sheepishly, as if to say, _Just trying not to crush you. Or touch you._

We dress quickly. It's nearly 11:30, and high time that she left. I turn off the television and the light and take the room key when I exit. I walk to the front office and return the key, informing the clerk that I'm checking out. He nods absently and I make the short trip back to my car. She's standing by it, expectantly.

I muster a smile. "Next week?"

"Of course," she says coolly. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."


	2. Husbands

You don't have to prove to me you're beautiful to strangers 

I've got loving eyes of my own…

- Carly Simon, _You Belong to Me_

I'm waiting in bed, alone. My wife's promised to try to make it home by midnight. 'Late night', she claimed. She really must not think much of me, if she thinks that I don't smell another man's cologne on her every Tuesday night.

Once I confronted her, and she slipped out of it, smooth as oil. "Honey, some of the guys in the office wear a little too much. When you sit in a boardroom next to them all day, you smell like it too."

That would be a great excuse, so I let it slide. Except that she smells like scent and sweat all mixed up and jumbled together. The first few times she came slinking in and ran straight to the shower. Then she figured out that I was on to her, so she just marches in as bold as brass and snuggles up to me if I'm already in bed, cooing about how much she's missed me.

Once I almost said, "I'm sure that your lover keeps you distracted, since you miss me so much," but decided why bother? I'm not actually mad with her. I'm not even sure I'd be mad with the guy, especially since I've got a good idea of whom it is. He's been pining after her for years now, nearly going insane with jealousy when she married me instead of him. Well, now that he's been sleeping with her, I'm sure that he feels suckered as well. After all, sex isn't where she gives her heart. The day-to-day living and the talks are the real meat and potatoes of my relationship with her, and the sex is more or less icing. And as any fool knows, you can't eat a steady diet of sugar for long without getting real nauseous. If he's giving his heart to her, he's in for a hell of a bad feeling when she finally gets bored.

I wonder why she's screwing around. I give her what she keeps claiming she wants; respect in a healthy dose, a listening ear, a compassionate mind. When she decided that she wanted to feel empowered, I willingly accepted the role of housewife and let her get a corporate job. I have dinner waiting for her nightly unless she calls and says that she wants to eat out, in which case I make reservations and meet her at the door with roses. I sympathize with her work issues, rub her back and her feet, draw her baths and help her comb out her hair when it snarls. And for this, she repays me by working non-existent hours at a job that ends by 5:30 at latest and fucking another guy.

I suppose that I'm just too much of a softy. But I really don't know of another way to be. I was just raised in a different era, I guess, an era in which a spouse's infidelity was hushed up and pushed aside for the benefit of the children. But there are no children here to be hurt by a divorce, no young lives to rip apart with biweekly visits. I should divorce her. But I won't. She'll get bored with him, and as patient as he's been to wait for her all this time, I am infinitely more calculating. He is hot-blooded and occasionally rash; I am cool, crafty. Perhaps that's the attraction; her attempts at spontaneity, gone awry.

The door opens downstairs. I lie here, waiting to hear her stealthy tread on the steps. She has gotten quieter with time and practice, but I can hear the compression of the carpet beneath her delicate toes. She is creeping upstairs. I don't know why, but I'm aroused.

The bedroom door cracks open, and she slips in. She looks so cute in that pink suit. The moonlight makes it look white. Almost. She's almost pure. I watch without movement or sound as she sheds the suit and doffs the cap, peels away her nylons after removing her shoes. She pulls the cover back and slides into bed next to me. Her nude body is cold.

I finally look at her, admiring her freckles. They're just barely visible. "Hard day at work, honey?"

"You know it," she responds, coming in for the kill. Her hair spills all around me, and I can smell her; cologne and sweat. When is she gonna learn? "I missed you, baby."

I try not to roll my eyes, and graciously accept her kiss. Although she smells tainted, her mouth tastes right, at least until she deepens the kiss. Her tongue meets my own, and I get the sensation of musk. She didn't even brush her teeth this time? Does she _want_ me to know? Shaking my head, I twist, flipping her over my frame so that she lies prone on her back. She stares up at me with green eyes.

Green. The color of jealousy.

All the same, I thrust myself into her downy entrance, groaning. Unfaithful though she is, she still arouses me wildly, and she's still my wife. As often as she goes to this other man – I believe that she's stepped it up to once a week – she still wears my ring and still comes home to me every night. Still gives me her meat and potatoes. And the icing. I watch, fascinated, as her dusky nipples become hard pebbles on her chest.

Her nails scrape my stomach muscles as we grind together.

I'm a fool, to be certain. But I'm _her_ fool. Her lover cannot claim this, because ironically enough he does not love her. The look in his eyes as she walks past him could hardly be considered adoration, lust or really even desire. He's simply playing tag.

Her hands reach up for my face, brushing along my cheekbones. I kiss her fingers, knowing that the end is near. The sound of my voice, harsh and excited in the silence of the room, is a sharp contrast to her soft sighs.

I come inside her with a scream, all of the feelings washed away in a foamy spray. She is only moments behind, reaching her own climax as I withdraw. I pull her close, rubbing her back. Rubbing off her sweat. Rubbing away his scent. I don't think that he holds her much. It's too easy to get rid of his smell.

I lay her back down after several moments and cover her with the sheets, making sure to set the clock for 8 a.m. She murmurs her thanks and begins her descent into sleep.

"I love you, Jean," I say softly as I fluff my pillow. Which is true, even though it's being said immediately following the throes of ecstasy. I love her despite her unfaithfulness and her feeble lies. I think that one day she will actually love me enough to try to get to know me, so that this charade can end and we can actually _be_ man and wife instead of just playing at it.

"Hmm?" she asks sleepily.

I kiss her cheek and cuddle against her. For once, it won't bother me to repeat something that anyone else would have heard. "I love you, Jean."

She smiles without opening her eyes. "I love you too, Logan. Good night."

****

A/N: Surprised you, didn't I? 

I suppose this could be an AU in which the X-Men have none of their powers, especially in light of how meek Logan is, Scott's indifference and Jean's…erm, skankiness. I'm content to end the tale here, but if you'd like me to continue, you can always let me know via feedback. Flames? Gonna have a good laugh at 'em, but go ahead if you are so inclined.


End file.
